CHAPTER XV.
The hunting party made up at the Fort was ready early in December, and we pulled out, promising to be home by New Year's day, at the latest.
At this time there were no steamers running across the bay in the direction we wished to go, so we hired a tug to take us over to the mouth of Petaluma creek, near which we proposed to pitch our hunting camp. Here was live-oak timber, with now and then a redwood, and in places the chapparal was thick, and there was no end to deer sign.
We had plenty of shelter in case of storm, having two good-sized tents in the outfit and only six men, not counting the darkey cook, who, however, always does count in an expedition like that. In the party I was the only one who had ever hunted any. Three of the others had never fired a shot at larger game than a jack-rabbit. Col. Elliott had once killed a deer, of which I made mention in a preceding chapter.
The following morning after breakfast I told them to select their course for the day's hunting, and I would go in an opposite direction.
"Why do you wish to go in an opposite direction?"
